The gardener nods. “Tell him Tom is here to see him,” McEwen says. The gardener disappears into the house. We park in the circular driveway, and I help McEwen out of the car and into his wheelchair. Then I push him to the front porch. We stare into a dark alcove and wait.

Five minutes later, a solitary figure emerges out of the shadows, limping toward us. It’s 2 in the afternoon, and George Steinbrenner is wearing slippers, silk pajamas, and a terry-cloth robe—all Yankee blue. A diamond-encrusted World Series ring nearly as big as a Ritz cracker obscures his wedding ring.

When he sees McEwen, a big, goofy grin spreads across his face. “Great to see ya, Tommy,” he exclaims.

“Great to see you, George,” McEwen says. He introduces me as a writer working on a story and asks about Steinbrenner’s wife, Joan.

“Great to see ya, Tommy,” Steinbrenner says.

McEwen asks about his sons, Hank and Hal.

“Great to see ya, Tommy,” he says.

McEwen asks about his daughters, Jennifer and Jessica.

“Great to see ya, Tommy,” he says.

McEwen asks about his health.

Steinbrenner sighs heavily and mutters, “Oh, I’m all right.”

He doesn’t look all right. In fact, he looks dreadful. His body is bloated; his jawline has slackened into a triple chin; his skin looks as if a dry-cleaner bag has been stretched over it. Steinbrenner’s face, pale and swollen, has a curiously undefined look. His features seem frozen in a permanent rictus of careworn disbelief.

McEwen recounts a surreal showdown at a Tampa dogtrack in which George and Joan cursed each other out in the most obscene language possible. “That’s Joan,” Steinbrenner says, chuckling. “She’s feisty.”

I ask Steinbrenner about the Yankees, who are struggling mightily at the time. The grin turns into a snarl. “They’ll come around,” he snaps. It’s the first sign of the old George.

I ask Steinbrenner whom he wants to succeed him. He ignores me. That’s the last sign of the old George.

A few minutes later, Steinbrenner starts repeating himself again. “Great to see ya, Tommy,” he says in response to every question. “Great to see ya.”

Shifting uneasily in his wheelchair, McEwen thanks his old friend for receiving us and says goodbye. Steinbrenner waves and grins. While I wheel McEwen to the car, he whispers, “It’s the strangest thing. George didn’t want us to go, yet he didn’t want us to stay.” I look back at the Yankees owner, who is still waving and grinning. “Great to see ya, Tommy,” he shouts. “Great to see ya.” Then he turns and limps back into the house.

“I’m shocked,” McEwen tells me. “George doesn’t even seem like the same person. I figured he might be in a bad way, but I never expected this.”